Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
The End
The world looks different now - duller. Like one of those old world photos, the western style ones you’d get taken at a theme park and then would put in a draw for years to grow dusty as forget about it. That same coating of dust is everywhere, it saturates the surfaces of our town, thick and powdery, footprints cut through it and it almost makes me laugh. It reminds me of the first snow of the year when everyone would race outside to their gardens to leave defined footprints. Snow doesn’t fall these days. These days the world only has one setting; hot.
By Karla hardiman3 years ago in Fiction
The Thing With Feathers
Hope strained her muscles and pushed the pedals of her bike the last 200 yards to the safety of the shade of the former four-stall car wash. The idea of wasting water for vanity's sake was a ludicrous notion to Hope. Still, her people had put the building to better use. A grow house. It warmed her heart, thinking of all the plants that large of a building could maintain. The solar panels appeared cared for, and the roof was of special greenhouse glass. The air purifier was attached to the side building. The old "Holiday" sign still stood, beckoning long-dead travelers to its doors. Not much for travelers these days. This location was a part of H.O.P.E. Heal Offer Protect and Educate. A last-ditch effort for the survival of life on earth. Their fight was an uphill battle. Some chose a nomad lifestyle, trying to survive however they could instead, often stopping through posts to trade goods, news, and even act as a postal service. Nomads were always a risk, and special precautions were taken with those that had not taken the oath. A nomad could become a scavenger if they grew desperate enough. While H.O.P.E. was against the destruction of any living thing, those that preyed on others were a cancer that could not be tolerated. Even names were safeguarded against strangers. Hope was the name of all that brought it to others.
By Jessica Spates3 years ago in Fiction
First Sunday
That first Sunday had faded from her memory just as its recording had slowly sunk into the memory banks of her somewhat dilapidated desktop. However, she had already reconstructed much of what had come before. She had only recently realized that the motivation for that first Sunday had been brewing for years. It had started as a nagging restless feeling, occasionally mutating into irritation, even outbursts of frustration, sometimes climaxing in feelings of disgust and, eventually, anger.
By Jerry Smeding3 years ago in Fiction
Semi-Scarred Dirt
The dilapidated house stood forlornly against the grey horizon, the lone dark sentinel keeping a careful eye on a dead world. John looked at it as the last dredges of daylight slunk below the horizon, rapidly turning the pasty grey frame of the sky a hungry mauve, then a deep velvet black. He sighed and rubbed his hands together out of habit, wondering if the winter weather gear in the box by the front door was still full. He could use a good pair of gloves for the future; especially one’s knitted by his mother.
By Patrick Davin3 years ago in Fiction
De-Unification
We were digging up the potatoes when Maggie-Mae collapsed. She slipped silently to the ground between the neat green rows - I don’t think anyone else saw. I didn’t want to draw attention, so I kept digging as I moved closer to her position, near enough to see she was still breathing. Her soft, gray hair clung damply to her cheeks, and she made a rasping, phlegmy sound with each shallow breath. It was clear she was unfit for work.
By Angel Whelan3 years ago in Fiction
Hold Onto A Piece of You
“This is special,” the woman said as she placed the warm piece of metal softly in young Lexi’s hand. Her mother had the sweetest voice. It always put Lexi at ease. “It is now a part of you. Always hold onto a piece of you, who you are, and never let go. No matter what, never let go.”
By Joseph Dib3 years ago in Fiction
The Awakening
First impressions are crucial, or so I’ve been told. Those first few seconds of meeting someone create an impression that will last a lifetime. All I can remember of Reeva are her heart shaped locket and her infectious smile. It’s been two years since the awakening when she was ripped from my arms. I still don’t know if she’s alive or not, but I still see her every night when I close my eyes. As soon as the darkness sets, I see those piercing brown eyes staring so deeply that it seems she sees the innermost, darkest depths of my soul. What I would give just for one more minute. But since it happened, it’s too dangerous to leave whatever shelter survivors were lucky to find before the bombs hit. I guess I should explain just what this great event is we refer to as an awakening. Two years ago, the world was hell, everybody was fighting everybody was wrong nobody was right. Politically correct is what we all strived to be. Anybody who dared go against the grain was brutally punished. Riots had become a way of life, murder was such a normal occurrence that eventually the detectives and police gave up trying to solve them, it was dangerous just to step foot outside your home. Eventually, country turned against country, ally against ally, and then the sirens started. It was a normal June night; it was my turn to make dinner, so I ordered pizza.
By Molly Willis3 years ago in Fiction
The Patient Who Could Not Recover
A shaft of dusty light vertically suspended the young graduate. A punishing boot of stiff plastic contained ser terrible wound, now clean, but ceaselessly dripping like a hungry critter’s mouth. The young graduate would soon learn why and how Sie arrived in this dank and most sorry of places, but for now the mist kept ser sedated.
By Jayde Kirchert3 years ago in Fiction